


Spontaneous Chemical Reaction

by Dienda



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Artistic License: Bombs, Best Friends, Featuring the color pink, Gen, Joan gets her 'choose a wire' scene, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:39:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8336839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dienda/pseuds/Dienda
Summary: Joan starts learning how to disarm a bomb, there might be a few hiccups.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic before the new season premiere so it doesn't really follow neither the timeline nor the plot of the first episode. Also, this is my first proper Elementary fic :D

“Watson,” Sherlock began as they sat on the library floor, organising the files from the smuggling case they had just closed. “I think it’s imperative you learn how to handle and disarm a bomb.”

“What?” Joan asked, unprepared for the non-sequitur. The case had had nothing to do with explosives and they’d just been talking about making sure the central heating was in working order for the upcoming winter.

“It was a glaring omission in your initial training and I should have sought to correct it sooner.” He closed the folder he’d been sorting out and looked at her. “The incident in our work room during the affair with Vikner made it quite clear that you are woefully unprepared to handle even the most rudimentary of explosive devices.”

They had closed the Vikner case months ago and, while they had talked about preparing for Moriarty’s possible retaliation and their immediate plans after Morland’s departure, they’d never really brought up the night they came home to a bomb on their table. Joan didn’t know what had made Sherlock think about this now but, well, she couldn’t really deny he had a point; it wouldn’t hurt to learn more about something that had proved relevant to their everyday work.

“Alright,” Joan agreed easily. “What do you have in mind?”

Sherlock beamed at her. “I shall prepare something as soon as we’re done here.”

 

He started, of course, by handing her about a dozen books on anything and everything to do with explosives: some history books on Greek fire and black powder and the invention of dynamite, scientific texts about the chemical reactions involved in a detonation, a physics volume on shock and fragmentation, and five bomb building manuals that Joan was pretty sure were ten different kinds of illegal. As if they weren’t on at least one government watch list already; she was pretty sure agent McNally got a full report every time they so much as glanced at one of the computers.

While she got through the stack of books Sherlock insisted they began a more practical review of simpler explosives. Between cases, Joan learned to recognise the materials in fireworks by their colour and smell and Sherlock had her make a handful of those tennis ball bombs he’d used for one of their first cases together. They built a small scale version of the devices used by Vikner, and Sherlock explained why the damage to Morland’s office had been so extensive and why ripping the detonator off had been the swiftest way to disarm the bomb they’d found in their home. He even taught her how to MacGyver explosives out of the bottles under the sink and the stuff they had lying around the house. He had always been rather enthusiastic about this kind of thing but, with his encyclopaedic knowledge, Joan sometimes forgot he had an actual degree in Chemistry.

For her first real practice she used one of the manuals to build a small parcel bomb, and then proceeded to disassemble it when Sherlock kept insisting the only way to make sure it was functional was to actually go to the post office and mail to themselves.

When Joan deemed she was ready for something more complex, Sherlock went out to see his bomb building friend and came back with a black box with a lid and a mess of wires inside. It wasn’t really a bomb ―Sherlock called it her ‘training wheels’― it wouldn’t explode at all but some of the wires were hooked to a buzzer that would go off if she moved them the wrong way; she had to learn to detect the faint electrical current running through the active wires and remove them in a specific order without tripping the buzzer. Once she disconnected all the wires she could reattach them and push a button on the side so the box would generate another random sequence. It felt more like cracking a safe ―or playing Operation― than disarming a bomb but Joan was proud to say she only made it buzz twice.

The next two packets weren’t explosive either but they looked more like the ones Sherlock used to bring home from time to time. When she deactivated them without too much trouble he made another appointment with his colleague and this time brought back three boxes.

 

“So, these do have an exploding charge but they won’t blow the place up if I screw up?” Joan asked. She examined the devices on the kitchen table, they all looked identical: a black metallic box with an aluminium cylinder on the lid, next to a blinking LED and a smaller case attached to the lid.

“Of course not, Watson. You’re still learning, you need all ten fingers for that.” Sherlock tilted his head and pursed his lips. “He just said it was something colourful.”

“But didn’t say what.”

He shook his head. So it could be confetti, colour powder, paint or even silly string for all they knew.

“Alright.” She pulled her hair up in a messy bun and carefully brought one of the bombs closer to the edge of the table. “I better start right away.”

“Do you want my assistance?” he asked tentatively, with a little bounce.

Joan bit her lip, she couldn’t have Sherlock holding her hand every single time but knowing something would actually happen if she made a mistake gave her a jolt of anxiety. “Yes, well―don’t help me but, stay here? Just watch.”

“As you wish, Watson.”

Joan went up to get a screwdriver and her set of pliers while Sherlock fetched gloves and two pairs of protective goggles. She began working on the outer case, examining it thoroughly to make sure it wasn’t booby-trapped. Joan had seen Sherlock work on some of these boxes while sprawled on the floor but she preferred to stay on her feet, perfectly aware that the position mirrored her familiar stance at the operating table. She felt it even more right now, with the sterile smell of the gloves in her nose and Sherlock at her side, handing her whatever tool she needed like the perfect operating room technician. She had to bite down a giggle at the image of Sherlock as a surgical tech in full scrubs. He’d probably wear caps as silly as his socks.

As if reading her mind, he took a deep breath and hummed almost too casually. “You’re doing remarkably well, Watson. It’s clear your previous surgical skills make you quite a natural at this. Bomb handling requires patience, excellent fine motor skills and nerves of steel, all of which you possess in abundance. I’d say there’s a 93% chance this won’t blow up in our face.”

Joan stopped her work to give him a side glance and a tiny smirk. “That’s quite high, thank you.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement as he took the screwdriver from her hand and replaced it with one of the pliers. “You are still a novice but, as I was saying, your medical experience gives you a notable advantage.”

After removing the outer case Joan started probing the mess of wires underneath, poking lightly with the tip of the pliers. She remembered what she’d read on the manuals, what she’d learned working on the training box; when she was sure she’d figured out the right sequence she began cutting the active lines.

Joan snipped the first three wires and carefully took the fourth between her fingers. The instant the pliers cut the metal she heard a soft click from inside the box. She didn’t even have time to gasp, which turned out to be a pretty good thing because a second later there was a blast and she felt something spray her face as the safety glasses turned bright, fluorescent pink.

She remained frozen for a long, stunned moment before blindly setting the pliers down.

“Watson, are you alright?” Sherlock’s voice was right on the edge of worry.

“Still got all my fingers, I think.” Joan reached up and took the goggles off and it came to her immediately. Sometimes the current jumped wires after the first cut. She’d forgotten to check. “Dammit.”

The bomb lay gutted on the table, its neon insides peeking through the open lid. Joan could feel the ink already drying on her skin. She looked up and around. One side of the table was pink, the floor was pink, the ceiling was pink, even the window behind them had a thin layer of pink around their silhouettes. It was brighter than bubblegum, brighter than fuchsia.

 Sherlock had already taken his goggles off and was regarding the mess with a thoughtful expression. He was pink too: hair, face, shirt. “Seems like my estimations were indeed too optimistic.”

“You jinxed it,” she accused, knowing it would annoy him.

Sure enough, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, a gesture somewhat undermined by the fact that the clean skin around his eyes made him look like a weird, rave-loving, reverse racoon. “The very concept of ‘jinxing’ something is idiotic and you know it.”

Joan let out a huff of laughter and looked down at herself, the front of her hoodie was no longer heathered black. “Tell me this stuff will wash off.”

Sherlock’s tongue darted out to lick at his neon-dyed upper lip, he wrinkled his nose and wiped his tongue on the back of his hand. “Methylamino anthraquinone, or a more rosé variation of it, widely used in bank dye packs. I’m afraid it won’t completely wash off our skin for a few days.”

“Great,” Joan sighed. “Now people will think we robbed a bank.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I hope you weren’t too fond of that sweatshirt.”

She looked down at the ruined garment with a resigned pout. “I can live without it. Maybe I can pretend it’s some adventurous designer piece.” Joan glanced at him, he’d been wearing the lovely powder blue shirt he’d bought last spring. She touched a finger to his sleeve. “I really liked that shirt on you.”

Sherlock examined his own chest with an exaggerated scowl. “I don’t think it’d quite make it as a fashion statement.” He took the ruined box and tossed it into the trash bin. “That teaches us to remember active lines sometimes jump to another wire once the first lead’s been cut.”

Joan narrowed her eyes at him and pointed an accusing finger.  “You knew I was about to make the wrong move.”

“I knew it was a possibility.” Sherlock straightened and went stiff, chin jutting out in his best affronted meerkat pose. “You told me not to intervene, and—” he raised a sage finger—. “Making mistakes is an important part of the learning process.”

“Maybe not when the result is having bright pink skin for the best part of a week,” Joan huffed. She knew he was right but it was hard to be reasonable with the feeling of indelible dye on her face; they had to run errands the next day, for god’s sake. Not to mention the damage to the house. She took in the whole scene again, they were probably gonna have to sand and revarnish the table, change the windowpanes, some of the floorboards. “What a mess. Miss Hudson’s gonna kill us.”

“Mmh, yes,” Sherlock nodded, a full-body nod as he re-examined the new stain on the ceiling. “I don’t think we’ll be able to fix this before she arrives tomorrow morning.” He bounced on his toes and looked down at her with a wide smile. “So, shall we continue with the other two devices?”

“What? We should start cleaning this mess, take a shower.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “We’re already pink.”

 Joan opened her mouth to protest but closed it with a sigh. That was actually a really good point. Truth to be told, it wasn’t like the brownstone was in mint condition, apart from the peeling wallpaper and creaking floors, almost every single room in the house had an odd stain somewhere, a testament to all of Sherlock’s experiments, whether they’d gone wrong or right.

As for herself, Joan didn’t feel defeated of discouraged, quite the opposite, she knew what she’d done wrong and knew how to avoid it. “Alright, but you can speak now.”

He beamed at her and went to get them another pair of goggles while she changed her gloves and put her pliers in order. She placed the next box in front of her as Sherlock took his place at her side.

“You’re staying in the splatter zone?” Joan asked with a raised eyebrow.

His arm bumped gently against her shoulder as his mouth curled into a smirk. “What can I say, I have faith.”


End file.
